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“A code of values accepted by choice is a code of morality” – Ayn Rand
*****
"Where are we going, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked as he was pulled along by his rescuer. He attempted to turn his body to see what was going on behind them in the train station.
Shouting, running, yelling... most of it concentrated toward the door Root had escaped through. Reese was moving swiftly in the opposite direction of most of the throng.
"We're getting out of here, Finch," Reese stated as he kept walking toward the nearest exit. "You don't want to have to answer a lot of questions, do you?"
"No," Finch agreed, "but what about...?"
"Let her go. I know how to track her," Reese told him. He tightened his grip on Finch's arm, nearly dragging him as he picked up his pace.
He felt woozy, confused. Things had happened so fast he only half believed that Reese had appeared and rescued him.
He could be hallucinating, he realized. He stopped, planted his feet as best he could. "Is this real?" he asked, trying to look defiant and authoritative but certain he was failing.
Reese ignored him, as he might have predicted. But perhaps a hallucination would too.
The figment-Reese kept moving and Finch couldn't do anything but slide and shuffle along beside him.
Finch stumbled, pitching forward, and felt Reese grabbing at him with his free hand. The look the man shot him was concerned.
"Finch?" Reese sounded rather breathless. His eyes looked bluer than Finch remembered. He liked Reese’s eyes. But they looked tired too, as if it had been a long time since he'd slept. Finch decided a hallucination would have looked more rested.
"She gave me something," Finch admitted. "Some kind of tranquilizer."
"It's okay, Finch. We're almost there," Reese murmured, steadying him, then started off again, a fraction slower, more careful.
Emerging from the station, Reese headed for the parking area. Finch still had all he could do to keep up with him, but he saw that Reese was looking over the cars.
Choosing a nondescript gray Toyota, Reese broke the driver's side window. He unlocked the doors and had Finch inside in less than a minute. Dropping against the seat cushions, Finch closed his eyes and listened as Reese hot-wired the car, started it and drove rapidly out of the parking lot. When he opened them again, they were on the freeway.
The sight of trees whipping past made his stomach churn. Finch thought he might throw up. He threw out a hand, grasping Reese's wrist on the gearshift. "John... please... stop," he gasped out.
Horns blared as Reese complied, cutting across lanes to stop on the shoulder. The car lurched to a stop. Finch brought his trembling hand to his mouth.
Reese turned to him, hands at his shoulder and forehead. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"
Finch drew in a ragged breath. He pulled off his glasses and wiped a hand over his face. "The car was going so fast... " He felt dizzy but the nausea was abating now that the car wasn't in motion.
Reese let go of him to rummage around in the stolen vehicle. He came up with a bottle of water from the back seat. Unsealing it, he offered it to Finch.
Finch attempted to take it, but his hands were too shaky. Reese helped him hold it so he could drink. After he managed a couple of swallows, Finch let him take it back. Reese pulled out his handkerchief and tipped the bottle into it, wetting the cloth. He patted it over Finch's forehead and face, then around to the back of his neck. He undid Finch's collar and loosened his tie, continuing to swab at his throat with the wet handkerchief.
There was a sore place on the left side of his neck. Involuntarily, he flinched when Reese's wet handkerchief passed over it.
Reese stopped, leaning closer, investigating. "She injected you?"
"Yes," Finch answered, his voice flat. It had been terrifying when she'd simply stabbed the needle into his neck. He'd only half believed her when she said it was a tranquilizer, imagining death slipping into his blood stream.
He stole a glance at Reese. He looked furious, but Finch decided it was probably directed at Root and not himself. Grimly, Reese wet his handkerchief a little more, busying himself with swabbing it over Finch's forehead and neck again.
The cooling wetness helped a lot. That and the unwavering presence of Reese, his near constant touches, made his rescue finally sink in.
He wasn't dreaming or hallucinating. Reese was real, right next to him, solicitously wiping a damp cloth over Finch's face. One part of Finch's mind catalogued Reese's actions, deciding he should probably be embarrassed by the perception he needed to be fussed over, while the rest was just grateful Reese wasn't so offended by Finch's weakness in being kidnapped in the first place that he hadn't decided to let Root keep him.
But thinking at all was difficult right now. He was still somewhat dizzy and that was combining with exhaustion to make him unable to actually string ideas together in any coherent fashion. He'd been awake... and sitting up mostly... for the better part of forty-eight hours.
"I think... I might need to... lie down," Finch said, noting his voice wasn't being very cooperative. He hoped his words weren't as slurred as they sounded to his own ears. He turned his body to look into the back seat. There wasn't anything in it, and he reached for the door handle, intending to get out and climb into the back.
"No." Reese's hand on his arm was like iron.
"Mr. Reese?" Finch turned questioning eyes toward him.
"I... " Reese hesitated, as if he wasn't sure what to say. "I think you should stay in the front seat." Not explaining further, he climbed out and walked around to the passenger side. He opened Finch's door, then bent down to find the lever that would adjust his seat. "I'm going to lean you back, Finch," he said, his voice rough, his expression self-conscious.
Finch let Reese recline the seat, realizing in a moment of clarity that the man didn't want to let him out of his sight, even if Finch would have only been behind him in the car.
"She's good, but I don't think she's achieved the ability to teleport," Finch complained as he lay back in the now nearly flat front seat. He was pleased that he got the entire sentence out without stammering.
Reese didn't answer. He returned to the driver's side and restarted the car. "We're going to the airport. When we get there, you can tell me what happened to your hand."
Finch let a few miles pass in silence. It was much better to ride lying down.
"She cut... me... with a razor blade," Finch said finally. Reese had sounded annoyed when he'd mentioned his hand and he wasn't sure if that was because of Finch's attempt at humor or for being injured in the first place.
Reese didn't respond, but Finch could see his hands tighten on the steering wheel.
"We were in a pharmacy," Finch went on, suddenly needing to talk about at least that part of his ordeal. "She wanted to get behind the counter... to steal drugs, so she... she grabbed a package of razor blades and before I could stop her... be-before I even knew what she was doing... she sliced my palm open." His hand jerked as he remembered how swift and shocking the cut had been. He'd just stood there, stunned, watching the blood well up.
"Finch, it's all right. You don't have to... " Reese cut himself off, sounding sorry he'd asked. He didn't take his eyes off the road but Finch could see his jaw clench.
"The pharmacist noticed I was... bleeding and came to help me... "
"It's okay," Reese said, seeming to be having trouble speaking. "Where was Root?" he asked after a moment. "Didn't the pharmacist see her do it?"
"No," Finch sighed, remembering his hopelessness in that moment, how sick he'd felt saying that he'd fallen on the street and injured himself. He'd hated himself then, but he'd known that Root would have killed the pharmacist if he admitted what was really going on.
"While he was distracted by my... predicament... she went to find whatever drugs she wanted on the shelves behind the counter," Finch said in a small voice.
Reminded of the stinging, sharp pain by talking about it, Finch rubbed at the bandage on his hand. It was the same one the pharmacist had applied, and he realized it needed changing. Root hadn't so much as looked at it or asked him if it hurt.
Reese didn't ask him why he hadn't fought back, he noted. He wasn't sure if he was grateful for that or not.
"I know I-I should have said something, tried to-to get away from her, but she kept threatening to kill innocent people." He had to make Reese understand. He hadn't wanted to be so docile, so compliant. "That's why she... pulled her gun on that porter at the station. When she saw you." Finch heard his voice shake as he talked. "When she first took me, I should have... struck her... or taken the chance that she'd miss when she threatened to shoot someone in the diner she took me to. A cop came in... she saw me watching him, looking for a chance to speak up... " His voice rose in desperation.
Reese took one hand off the steering wheel, reaching for Finch's trembling fist.
"Harold, you did everything you could," Reese told him, his voice soft but certain.
Finch was anything but certain. Reese would have done something, Finch wanted to say. Reese wouldn't have been overwhelmed and terrified. Finch had only been able to think of the Machine, not possible weaknesses in his captor. All this time, he'd been working behind his computer to save innocent people, now they could be killed right in front of him if he made her angry.
"Outside the hotel... I was waiting for you to bring Miss Turing to me," Finch said at last, thinking back to when he'd been waiting for Reese to escape both HR and the FBI, "when Alicia Corwin got into my car." She'd been distraught, terrorized. Knowing about the Machine had turned her life into a nightmare. Realizing the Machine existed had given Root purpose and resolve. The two women had been at opposite ends of the spectrum, leaving Finch squarely in the middle. He'd realized the enormity of what he'd built all along, but he still believed he'd done the right thing for the right reasons. And no matter what Root said, he knew there was no flaw in his creation that she or anyone else could exploit.
He shuddered, knowing he had to hang on to that belief, that truth, no matter what.
"I know Root shot her," Reese said, misinterpreting Finch's physical reaction. "I found her body." He seemed about to say more but then appeared to change his mind.
Finch had relived Alicia's death over and over again in the past two days. One moment he'd been trying to explain to her that it wasn't the Machine that was doing bad things -- and the next a chunk of her skull was blown out. Thinking of that, now, with miles and Reese between him and Root, Finch realized why he couldn't have resisted when Root got in the car.
"You know I... dislike firearms. I think I was so... shocked... by the murder of Ms. Corwin that I was... quite unable to do anything to prevent my kidnapping." He hesitated, remembering that his next thoughts had been about Reese. "I was concerned that she'd shot you too."
"Is that why you didn't expect me to come looking for you?" Reese asked. It took Finch a moment to remember he'd said as much when Reese helped him up off the floor in the train station.
"No. Fortunately, Root told me she'd left you... unscathed."
"Then you thought I'd be occupied with taking care of the numbers." It wasn't a question. He let go of Finch's hand.
Finch regretted having said that to Reese, but it had been true, at least partly. "I told you awhile ago that I had a contingency plan if anything happened to me," Finch sighed.
Reese snorted. "Yeah. I know. Me." He flicked on the turn signal, then the car swerved to the right as he took an exit.
"You don't sound pleased." Finch observed.
Reese didn't answer. Finch saw that his mouth seemed to be set in a serious line, not quite a frown but obviously a negative expression.
"I never thought that I might be... alive... yet unable to work with the Machine, Mr. Reese," Finch went on. "My contingency plan was to be put into effect if I happened to be dead."
"Clearly, you should have had another plan," Reese remarked, this time sounding less annoyed. "I'm surprised at you, Finch. You usually think of everything."
"Yes, well... " Finch let the sentence hang unfinished. He was so tired. He couldn't keep his eyes open.
He reached upward, just catching the hem of Reese's suit jacket. He clenched his fingers on the fabric as he drifted off to sleep.
It seemed only moments had passed when he felt a soft touch at his cheek. The car had stopped moving.
"We're here, Harold." Reese's voice, as soft as his touch.
Finch blinked, feeling disoriented. "Where?" He tried to sit up but with the seat reclining, he wasn't able to.
"The airport. I've got a plane waiting to take us home."
"That sounds... really good." Feeling like a turtle on its back was somewhat annoying. "Could you help me up, please?"
Reese rounded the vehicle once more and opened Finch's door, using the lever to raise the seat this time. He took Harold by the arm, carefully helping him from the car. Getting his bearings, Finch peered around. They had parked near a hangar that was obviously used by private planes. To their immediate left stood a sleek jet, its boarding stairs extended.
Reese maintained his grip on Finch as they made their way up the steps of the waiting aircraft.
Once inside, Finch was impressed by the transportation John had managed to obtain for them. It was an older model private jet, with a bar in the rear of the cabin and, in the forward area, three rows of beige leather seats on either side of an aisle. A faded blue curtain separated the passenger compartment from the cockpit.
Reese helped Finch into a seat by the right hand windows and fastened his seat belt for him before walking forward to speak with the pilot. He returned in a moment and sat beside Finch, belting himself in and leaning back against the worn leather.
"Don't worry. He’s trustworthy. And he doesn’t know anything," Reese told him. "The plane's from Texas."
"Texas?" Finch asked, though he was too exhausted to really be that curious. Perhaps later. "I think I'll have to take a look at your expense account, Mr. Reese," he managed dryly.
Reese smirked, the hand he'd placed over Finch's forearm squeezing gently, as if he appreciated the attempt at humor. "We should be in New York in about an hour," Reese told him as they began to taxi down the runway.
Finch heaved a sigh. "Good." He looked out the window. "I thought... "
"What, Finch?" Reese asked when he didn't continue.
"I didn't think I'd ever get to go back." It was difficult admitting that. Finch closed his eyes, suppressing a shudder.
"You've been through a lot," Reese observed quietly. "We should talk."
"I know," Finch responded, still staring out at the retreating ground. "But not just yet. I think I need some time."
Reese didn't argue with him and for that Finch was grateful. He was so tired, but he didn't think he could doze off again. Even though he was safe, his whole body was strung tight with tension, the further he got from Root, the more images of the things she'd done over the past two days began to haunt him.
She'd drugged that blonde woman in the restaurant, injected Weeks and then tied him up and suspended him right in front of Harold, who'd had to listen to the man's gasps and pleas while Root just stood there, smiling and talking nonsense. And Finch hadn't been able to do a thing to stop her. He'd had to watch her and listen to her, all while he'd grown ever more desperate to stop her from getting to the Machine. But with each unfeeling act she performed against someone else, Finch had grown more and more concerned he wouldn’t be able to keep the Machine safe.
He didn't realize he was shaking until he felt Reese's hand on his shoulder.
"I'm all right, Mr. Reese," he said abruptly, not looking at the other man.
Reese shifted in his seat, leaning close to him. "No, you're not, Harold." The soft voice in his ear sounded so patient, so understanding. So sane.
"She's lost her mind," Finch whispered, still unable to face his friend. "She thinks people are 'bad code.' She wants to set the Machine 'free' -- whatever that means." His voice dripped with distaste for her words.
Reese clasped Finch's shoulder, running his hand up and down Finch's arm soothingly. "It's hard when someone crazy has you," he observed. "There's no way to know what they'll do next, no way to get through to them."
Finch dared a glance at Reese, then looked back toward the window. "She's... diabolical." He winced. "It was extremely disconcerting."
"Finch... " Reese touched his chin, turning Finch to face him. "I asked if you wanted something to eat or drink, but you didn't hear me, did you? There's food on board. You look like you need... something." Reese's voice trailed off and Finch resisted the urge to apologize.
"I'll see what I can find for you," Reese said then, his voice sounding hollow, resigned. Finch wished he could care, wished he actually was hungry.
He held himself perfectly still, focusing on the sounds of Reese hunting through cupboards and opening drawers, trying desperately to keep his mind blank. He closed his eyes, imagining a screen saver, one he remembered from years ago, a lake with water gently rippling but otherwise very smooth, very still. If he could just hold onto that image....
Reese reappeared at his side, holding out a tray with some cheese and crackers, a small bowl of what appeared to be canned soup and a glass of water. Finch grimaced but he supposed he should humor Reese. He held out his hands for the tray.
Reese sat next to him and Finch noticed he hadn't fixed anything for himself. Feeling even more awkward at that realization, Finch nevertheless picked up his spoon and tried to eat. His hand shook a little, so he put the spoon back down and tried the cheese and crackers. The saltines were stale and the cheese tasteless. He chewed and swallowed mechanically, drinking the cold water gratefully. That at least tasted good to him. Root had withheld water from Weeks and she hadn't been much more generous with him. After a moment, Finch tried the soup, his hand shaking less this time. It was ubiquitous vegetable, with carrots and green beans chopped as small as the tiny peas and kernels of corn floating in the reddish broth. Finch reminded himself that Reese had made it for him and he ate as much of it as he could.
He glanced over at the man he’d hired to help him with the numbers. Reese did look tired, but he wouldn’t relax, Finch realized until they were home, until he was safe. Reese would do anything for him, shoot people, steal cars, jump over travellers in train stations and fix him canned soup on someone’s private jet. All while looking handsome in his black suit and white shirt. Gazing at the classic profile, Finch allowed himself a small, tender smile. He couldn’t hang onto it and Reese shouldn’t see it anyway, he thought as it slipped from his face.
"Thank you," he said finally, dropping his spoon on the tray. The food felt like lead in his stomach. Reese remained silent as he gathered the tray and carried it back to the bar area, leaving Finch with his thoughts.
Where was Root now? Would she continue to try to find the Machine? Would she dig until she came up with one of the few other people in the world who knew about it and torture them for information even Finch himself didn't possess? She'd smiled so sweetly when she proclaimed that everything had a flaw, that she could always find them, that she would find the flaw in his Machine. But she was anything but sweet. She murdered and tortured as easily as she painted her nails and talked about apples that didn't go brown and people that would only do bad things.
And Finch had agreed with her, telling her what he hoped she wanted to hear, that he too had wanted to fix people, to find the ones that needed fixing with his creation... But in the end, he'd only been able to insist again that he would never help her gain access to it. In the end, he'd begged her to kill him, if only so he didn't have to listen to her any more.
Reese was beside him again, silently waiting for Finch to talk, he supposed. Later, when the man's patience was exhausted, there would be questions. Reese would want the details. He was very thorough that way. Maybe they could tape pictures and assorted papers on the glass at the library....
What did she say to you, Finch? Where did she take you? What did she do to you?
Reese would listen to it all and remember it always, keeping Finch's failure in his mind when they tried to save the next number and the next and the one after that. He'd think of Finch held captive, dragged from New York to Delaware to Maryland, watching helplessly as Root did whatever she pleased.
Finch couldn't handle the close quarters. All he could think about was being bound to that chair in Weeks' house with plastic ties, helpless, unable to stop her from torturing the man. With jerky movements, Finch unfastened his seat belt and pushed up, climbing out of his seat, over Reese and into the aisle.
He paced to the back of the plane, turned and limped forward again. He was so agitated he couldn't contain himself. He felt like he wanted to scream, to hit something, to grab Reese's gun and do something to stop Root... but it was too late.
He turned toward the rear of the plane again, but Reese was there, blocking him, capturing him in strong arms. Trembling, Finch tried to escape. He should have tried to overpower her, should have done something...
"I've got you, Harold." Reese's whisper in his ear was hushed, considerate.
"No... " Finch moaned. He didn't even know for sure what he was saying 'no' to, but everything felt wrong, upside down, changed.
"Yes." Reese's assertion was even softer, his lips moving against Finch's ear. "Easy, easy," he chanted, his encircling arms not letting Finch go. He was big, solid, unfailing. Safe. Sane.
Finch finally stopped shaking. He sagged in defeat, in exhaustion, but Reese still held him fast.
Pressed tight against him, Finch could feel Reese's heart beating rapidly against his own. The other man seemed as agitated as Finch was. His hands were running up and down Finch's back and he remembered how they'd anxiously searched for wounds when Reese had knelt beside him at the station.
"John," he murmured, not knowing what to say but realizing the man who'd come for him needed reassurance too. "I'm okay," he started to assert, intending to pull out of Reese's embrace and show him he'd regained his equilibrium. He really shouldn't allow himself to break down in front of Reese this way; the man would never feel he could rely on Finch again.
"I was lost without you," Reese gasped out, the confession so ragged it seemed wrenched from his soul. "I told the Machine... I couldn't do it without you. I tried -- I saved Leon -- but I couldn't keep doing it, not alone. I told it... it had to help me find you or nobody else would get saved."
Finch's mind was spinning. Reese told the Machine something? Gave it an ultimatum? Who was Leon -- a number? He was lost without him? Finch settled on that statement, stunned and touched. He had known Reese was grateful for the job Finch had given him, that he felt friendship for him, but could Reese feel more for him than that?
He wrapped his own arms tight around the trembling man who was holding him. "I'm here, John. You found me. I'm all right." He tried to soothe Reese, staggered by the knowledge that this strong man needed comfort in the aftermath of his kidnapping. Reese bore scars that weren’t only physical, and his emotions, so often hidden, ran deep. Finch just hadn’t expected them to be directed toward him. He reached up to stroke John's cheek.
Reese frowned, letting go to grasp Finch's bandaged hand. He unwrapped the soiled dressing to examine the cut on Finch's palm. "Harold," he groaned, looking more worried than before. "We need... " He tried to move away, as if he was about to start hunting for a first aid kit.
"It's all right, John," Finch insisted, pulling him back. "It can wait." He met the man's brooding gaze. "Come here." Finch held out his arms.
Reese moved into them instantly, wrapping his right arm around Finch, while still cradling his injured hand with his left. He reverently pressed a kiss into his wounded palm, then trailed his lips to Finch's wrist. Finch’s mouth dropped open in surprised pleasure at the intimate, sensual act. He hadn't let himself think about his attraction to Reese, but now the sensation of Reese’s questing lips on his skin flooded him with warmth and for a moment, his despair faded.
"What's this?" Reese asked, noticing the reddened stripe on Finch's wrist. He sounded worried, almost angry.
"She used zip ties. They weren't very tight," Finch hastened to assure Reese. "But with my limited range of motion, I couldn't get away."
"I'm so sorry," Reese said, gathering Finch close. "I should have seen... should have stopped her... found you sooner."
Finch brought both hands up to frame the worried face. "John. Don't."
For the space of a heartbeat they stood looking into each other's eyes. Then, moaning in need, Reese covered Finch's lips with his own.
It was breathtaking, perfect. Finch had watched John for such a long time, but on paper, on computer screens, before he met him. And then after, in the flesh, more closely, noting his fearless grace, his enviable power. Finch couldn't remember when he'd started wanting him, yet denying to himself that he did.
He'd memorized the man from thousands of hours of surveillance tapes and dozens of photographs, watched him walk, watched him fight. He'd seen his lips tighten when he pulled a trigger, wondering what they would feel like against his own. And told himself a thousand times he shouldn't be thinking any such thing.
Now here he was, finding out when he was bone weary, wearing the same clothes he'd had on for three days, his mind analytical when it should be doing anything but thinking. He should be only feeling, tasting, giving back what Reese was so unabashedly giving him.
Reese's kiss was deep and unreserved, intense and honest. His lips were soft, yielding, moist and hungry. Finch felt needed and cared for -- and terrified. There were so many reasons they shouldn't be doing this, yet so many more Finch wanted to.
Confusion. Desire. Embarrassment. He didn't know what he was feeling, what he was doing.
Surely Reese would regret his impulsiveness a moment from now. But did John Reese do anything without being sure of himself?
Harold Finch never did. Or rather, he never used to. For the last forty-eight hours, he'd been manipulated, held against his will. Here and now, he could do what he wanted, show his feelings.
Reese was good, so good. Practiced yet genuine, sincere and patient, as though he understood Finch's qualms and was waiting him out.
There would be consequences and though he knew Reese had accepted many negative ones in his life, as Finch had himself, he wasn't sure their working relationship could... He should stop this, say something. Finch opened his lips, but before he could manage a single word, Reese slipped his tongue into Finch’s mouth.
Reese made himself at home there, like he was surveilling Finch as thoroughly as any number. Every thought, every possible objection left his brain, leaving only sensation. As if taking down a firewall, Finch opened to him, surrendering, giving Reese unlimited access, admitting his own hunger.
His arms tightened, pulling John closer. His tongue slid boldly into Reese's mouth, seeking wordlessly. Finding wetness, the taste of coffee, passion held in check by concern.
There was no rush, no destination, only Reese's deep, profoundly moving kisses that seemed to go on endlessly. They erased the horror of the interminable hours with Root from his mind. Finch knew the effect could be only temporary, but he hung onto it, as desperately as he held Reese and kissed him back.
Finally, they broke apart. Gasping for breath, Reese leaned his forehead against Finch's., his hands bracing Finch's shoulders. The only sounds were the noise from the jet engines and Reese’s labored breathing.
Before Finch could say anything, the pilot's drawl came over the intercom. "We're startin' our descent, sirs. Should be landin' at Newark Airport in about twenty minutes."
"We should be able to get back to the library in, what? An hour and a half?" Finch asked. His eyes were fixed on Reese's mussed white shirt, the open third button allowing a view of just a sliver of smooth skin.
When his companion didn't respond, he asked, "Mr. Reese?"
Reese drew a ragged breath. "Yes?" He sounded as though he were trying to pull himself together after a particularly arduous confrontation.
That wasn't actually the effect Finch liked to believe kissing him should provoke. He looked up worriedly. "Are you all right?"
Reese's eyes were soft and his face seemed younger somehow. Finch was relieved to find that Reese didn't look as though he'd just been in a brawl.
"Why do you ask?"
"You sounded... uncertain."
Reese drew him closer and whispered huskily in Finch's ear. "Maybe that's because you just had your tongue in my mouth but you’re still calling me 'Mr. Reese.'" Pulling back, Reese regarded him levelly, one eyebrow slightly raised.
"Oh. I'm sorry." Finch attempted to look contrite. "John."
A smile like no other he'd seen on the man broke over Reese's face. "Thank you, Harold."
His voice was like velvet and candlelight. The idea that such frivolous imagery could possibly apply to a man like Reese was absurd, but Finch decided that was better than dwelling on being kidnapped by a -- what was that expression he'd heard somewhere -- crazytownbananapants? Almost euphoric, he nearly said that aloud. There was a possibility that he was still under the influence of the drug Root had given him. "I feel... much better now," he managed to say instead.
Reese touched the side of his face, his eyes looking relieved. Keeping an arm around Finch's shoulders, he escorted him back to a seat, this time on the opposite side of the plane.
"Do you really want to go straight to the library? I thought you'd want to go home first. Maybe shower and change?" Reese asked.
"You're not as clever as you think you are, John." Finch pulled off his glasses and began polishing them with his pocket square. They hadn't been cleaned in days and yet somehow they'd become more smudged in the last few moments.
"Harold, I was only thinking of you." Reese actually sounded offended, but when Finch put his glasses back on he could see the glint in Reese's eyes. "Or we could go to my place."
Then he sobered. "I didn't have a chance to tell you --Alicia Corwin broke in to the library."
"What? Are you sure it was Corwin? Not Root?"
"I could tell by the way the main lock was breached. She used a device issued by her agency, not something Root would have access to."
"Did she do anything there...?" Even though he knew Alicia was dead, he still couldn't help the feeling of panic that came over him at the idea of her actually finding and getting inside the library.
"I don't think so. Nothing seemed really disturbed. I think she just looked around. Don't worry about it."
"Don't worry about it? We don't know if she made contact with anyone from her agency before she was killed."
"I don't think she did. And I spent the night there the first night you were gone. Nobody showed up."
Finch sighed and tried to force himself to calm down. "I'll have to check all the computers personally."
"I'm sure you will. But I used them to work on the number the Machine gave me and in trying to find you. Everything's in order," Reese assured him. "At least as far as I could tell."
Finch knew he wouldn't be able to relax until he'd had a chance to check everything himself, but for now, he decided to trust Reese's judgment. The exhilaration of the last moments was dissipating. Alicia's break-in, the fact that Reese had obtained a new number from the Machine and apparently resolved the situation, his mention of spending the night in the library...so many questions were vying for his attention. He wanted to ask Reese just how he'd managed to trace Root, but he was suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. He rubbed at his aching temples.
"I"m sorry, Harold," Reese said, looking apologetic. "I think I saw some tea when I was making your soup. Would you like some?"
"I'd love a cup," Finch answered.
Reese got up and strode purposefully to the back of the cabin. "There's no green tea," he announced after a moment. "But I can make you a cup of Earl Grey."
"That will be fine, John. Thanks." While he waited, Finch tried breathing in and out as slowly as he could.
A few minutes later, Reese came back to his side with a mug of steaming tea with milk. Taking it with both hands, Finch blew on it, then took an appreciative sip.
"Y'all should fasten up them seat belts," came the pilot's voice.
Reese sat next to Finch and buckled his own belt, then reached across to do Finch's up for him. Harold would have complained but holding the hot tea would have made it difficult and he knew it made Reese feel better to be able to do these little things for him right now. He would have to reassert his fitness soon, but for the moment he decided to allow his friend's solicitous care. He'd never say so, but it made him feel better too.
The plane landed smoothly, and Finch hobbled to the cockpit to thank the pilot before disembarking. After having a few words of his own with the pilot, John retrieved a duffle bag from under one of the seats, and since Finch had none, there wasn't anything else to do but descend the steps to the tarmac and look around. The altered skyline of New York City had never looked so beautiful. It was early evening, lights sparkling and golden in the distance.
Reese touched his elbow. "Let's go."
"Are we stealing another vehicle?" Finch asked, limping beside him.
"Not this time. Carter and I left from here and parked... " He paused, looking up to check the rows of parked cars. "Over there."
"Detective Carter was with you?" Finch was startled to learn that.
"Long story," Reese said, fumbling in his pocket for car keys. He opened the trunk and threw in his bag. "Don't worry, Finch. We shared a motel room in Texas, but the only person I kissed on this trip was you." He opened the passenger door.
Finch noted Reese did nothing to attempt to hide his smirk. He climbed into the sedan and shut his eyes. "I'll expect a full report when I've had a chance to rest and make sure the library is secure," he said when Reese was in the driver's seat.
"Now that I think of it, I probably should let her and Fusco know you're safe."
"They don't know already?"
"I was...distracted."
Finch listened as Reese pulled out his phone, too tired to open his eyes again. He expected to hear his call to the detectives, but the sound of tapping revealed he was texting them the information instead. When the car started, Finch shifted his body along the bench seat, sliding closer to Reese. He was relieved they hadn't become uncomfortable with each other. They should talk, he supposed, and not just about his abduction and Reese's search for him. For now though, all he wanted to do was to rest, and be as close to Reese as he could.
He felt Reese lift his arm and drape it around him, tugging him near. With his head comfortable on Reese's broad shoulder, lulled by the motion of the car, Finch drifted into sleep.
He dreamed first of John's kisses. They were together, not wearing clothes, but his dream self couldn't see as much of Reese as he wanted to. It felt wrong, awkward, and outside the dream he worried if they'd ever go further or even kiss again. It had happened under duress....
He drifted deeper, lonely, worried, walking naked into the library to find it ransacked, destroyed, broken glass and computer parts cutting his feet. He could hear Root laughing. She was cutting apples, pouring tainted water into his mouth to make him talk. He heard moans and saw that John was her prisoner, tied in Weeks' house between the pillars, stripped, beaten, trembling, his wrists chaffed and bleeding. Root brandished her knife close to Reese's heaving chest.
"Give me the Machine, Harold. If you want your knuckle-dragger to live, you'll tell me how to free it."
"You're wrong," he gasped. "He proves you're wrong. You're the bad code...."
Reese's eyes watched his, patient and unbroken, waiting for Root to kill him, knowing Finch would never give up the Machine, even for him.
Root raised her blade --
Finch jerked, moaning, but couldn't wake.
”I built the Machine to save everyone. It won't even save me. There is no flaw in it. And you'll never exploit it.... No one will... “
No one. Please. Let that be true....
"Finch. Finch!"
He opened his eyes. Reese was outside the car, leaning in the open door to his right, shaking his shoulder.
"John?" He felt groggy, uncoordinated. His mouth tasted like dried out library paste.
"You're safe. We're home."
He tried to look around but his neck felt stiffer than usual. He raised a hand to rub at it.
"Come on," Reese said. "I want to get you inside."
He let Reese help him out of the car. Looking around blearily, he realized they had parked closer than usual. Closer than he felt it was safe. Reese took his arm again, as if to head for the door.
"What about... your bag?" Finch managed.
"Already in there."
"You've gone in? While I was... out here... sleeping?"
Reese reached into Finch's breast pocket and pulled out a phone. "I left this on you," he said. "I wanted to go up and check it out first. I thought it was safer to leave you here with the phone on so I could hear if anything happened, than be dragging you with me if anyone was inside."
"Oh." He should have known John would have put his safety first. "Okay."
Still fuzzy from his nightmares, he followed Reese as best he could, limping up the stairs to his post, more relieved than he could say to find it almost exactly as he had left it.
Then John whistled. "Finch, meet Bear."
A huge dog trotted out. There was a chewed book in his mouth and even though he obediently dropped it when Reese issued curt, incomprehensible orders to the dog, Finch wondered just how 'trained' Reese's new acquisition was. He hadn't known Reese even liked animals, but the way he'd commandeered Fusco and added him and Detective Carter to their team, perhaps Finch shouldn't have been surprised to find the man was prone to collecting strays. John looked inordinately happy when Finch complained that the dog had found an Asimov first edition to play with.
But he didn't seem inclined to kiss Finch again, and while he too recognized that they shouldn't rush any further changes to their relationship, Finch thought longingly of how it had felt to be in the other man's arms. He decided his words should be formal, in deference to the distance Reese was apparently trying to put between them.
"I owe you a debt...."
Then Reese's phone rang.
He couldn't hear what was being said, but the knowledge of who it was made his blood run cold. He could hear her cloying, phony sweetness ooze into John's ear and his hands clenched, once again feeling powerless as she mocked him. Whatever she said to John, Reese ignored it.
All he said in response was, "If you ever come near us again, you'll regret it."
Finch knew Root, in her arrogance, wouldn't believe him. But Finch did. And he felt renewed hope. For the Machine's safety. And for what they'd shared on the plane.
John had said,’ If you ever come near us again...'
*****